Keep Me Close
by Bookworm Kate
Summary: Foyle's War: Takes place during the episode 'Enemy Fire' - a closer look at what may have happened when Andrew went AWOL. It was a long night, after all... Sam/Andrew
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is set during the episode "Enemy Fire". I've not really written a true Sam/Andrew story before (and there is a part of me that can't promise this won't turn into a Sam/Foyle story), but I wanted to explore what may have happened when Andrew went AWOL.

As always, no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Chapter 1

She studied him in the soft light. Having never seen so much of a man, she was curious and found her eyes drawn to the hard lines and sharp curves of his body. His face, still tired looking, was shadowed with stubble. With the jaw relaxed, and softly breathing in and out in early morning sleep, he looked vulnerable and sweet.

Quietly, she pulled the blackout curtain back completely, bathing the room in gold. After yesterday's rain, the day was proving already to be blue and bright. Samantha Stewart had woken early, unfamiliar with sharing a bed. She'd slipped out from under his arm, wrapping herself in her dressing gown, sitting comfortably in the low slung chair by the window. At first, feeling guilty, but then slowly reconciling herself to the fact, she allowed herself to watch him. To relive his body.

Andrew Foyle lay on his stomach, dark head nestled deep into the pillow, sleeping the sleep of an exhausted man. He seemed to melt into the sheets. She didn't dare wake him, knowing sleep would only do him good. Not only had he been flying all hours, but then to never sleep properly because of nightmares and to feel a guilt that nagged away at him constantly…Sam felt her eyes contract in to a frown of concern. _We ask so much of them…_

She remembered him as he had been when they had first met: Andrew Foyle, new recruit to the RAF in 1940, full of life and cock-sure of his abilities and desirability. His dark hair had this silly habit of flopping across his brow, and she had secretly found him attractive. He was bold and full of himself, and had tried his hand with her within a few minutes of their meeting. Though she had put him in his place quickly enough, Sam had been rather pleased.

What had he said? _We have plenty of women drivers in the WAAF…I just didn't expect one to be driving my dad — and such a pretty one at that._ Hadn't she tried to look fierce! After that she hadn't thought much about him, only when her boss, DCS Christopher Foyle, looked particularly strained did she think to ask if he'd had news of Andrew.

It seemed misfortune was always to bring them together, Sam mused, sitting back lazily, enjoying the rare bit of sun on her shoulders. When he'd been shot down six months ago, Foyle had asked her to take him out — take his mind off things and feeling down. That had been a disaster; but he'd made up for it well enough.

Much like this time. He'd been a right fool, but he always seemed to be able to find a way to soften her exasperation with him. If only he would think a bit _beforehand_, he wouldn't be constantly making up for things with her. He was so different from his father in that way; she didn't like to compare them, but she was with Foyle senior more than Andrew, being on the job together, and it was only natural.

The thought of DCS Foyle made Sam sit up. She had a bit of time before going to collect him with the Police issue Wolseley, but she was anxious all the same. He could read her face like a book, and she knew he would be bound to notice something. He was already on her trail, sniffing closer; Andrew hadn't helped by being out of sorts these past few days, which in turn had put her in a sulk. Foyle had noticed right away and had probed gently. It was a warning to Sam that they would have to be careful. Foyle surely wouldn't approve of his son and his driver stepping out together.

However, she hated keeping things from Foyle. It felt like some sort of betrayal or dishonesty. She had very nearly told him, but had bitten her tongue each time. He would pierce her with his blue eyes, speaking volumes without a word, and it was all she could do not to tell him everything. And now with Andrew… Sam chewed her nail absently, thinking of ways to get around her boss' possible questions.

Her eyes slid back across the room to the prone figure and she smiled to herself. He looked lovely in the morning light and her heart beat a little faster. Only two days ago she had been alternatively worried for him, furious with him, and confused at his aloof manner. She had wanted to box his ears until he got it into his silly head that even though there was a war on, life had to go on as normally as it could, otherwise they might as well pack it in and give over to the Germans. He had begrudged the fact that his best friend wanted to marry his girl as soon as the war was over; he had made light of a young couple making plans, and Sam had felt only annoyance at his despair. She understood better now of course, but then…

* * *

Sam waited patiently on a bench in the churchyard, trying to find the source of the pretty birdsong that drifted down from the rafters of the bell tower. In the corner of her eye she saw DCS Foyle standing above a grave. His shoulders were hunched and he held a small bunch of flowers limply in his hands. He seemed unable to make up his mind whether to place the flowers on the grave and go, or to stay a while. She tried not to watch him, but his face kept drawing her in and she felt her heart go out to the quiet, steadfast man.

When he later wandered slowly up the path towards her, she stood, giving him a soft smile. Foyle thrust his hands in his pockets and said, "Thanks for waiting."

"Of course, sir."

Sam felt a hundred questions forming, and wondered what Foyle had been like as a married man. Neither he, nor Andrew ever talked much about the woman they had lost. Sam wondered curiously if Foyle had been home on time for tea in those days; had he been more quick to smile and laugh? His wife had obviously been a special lady. They crunched along the gravel path side by side, and Sam glanced over at Foyle.

"What was she like?" Sam asked tentatively. "You never talk about her. Do you mind me asking?"

"Not at all." A brief smile from Foyle put her at ease. "Well, she was much loved and well thought of…and um, well you would have liked her."

Sam smiled, remembering Andrew having said the same thing. It only peaked her curiosity more, but she bit back any further questions. Foyle seemed distracted, waiting and looking around as if expecting someone else.

"I just want to hang on a moment longer."

"You must miss her terribly."

Foyle nodded and pivoted away from her, searching among the gravestones. "Y-yes."

The birdsong had ended, and the churchyard was quiet as only churchyards can be.

"No, let's go," Foyle said finally, leading the way back to the car.

Sam kept glancing at him as they drove into town. He seemed lost in thought.

As the whole afternoon was spent waiting around at the station, Sam put her mind on the new dress she was going to wear for Andrew. He had been busy flying all week, but he had sent over a note yesterday to say he would be getting a lift in to Hastings with Greville Woods once they were back from their op.

She had sensed the undertone in his words… _if we make it back_… and it left her feeling cold. She tried to take her mind off it by thinking about the dress and wondering if Andrew would take her dancing. He was a wonderful dancer and she loved the silly jokes he would whisper in her ear as they moved about the dance floor. It was like being in their own little world.

Once she was off duty at six o'clock, feeling famished and slightly anxious, Sam changed in to her new dress at the Police station. She spent a long time over her make-up and hair, trying not to keep checking the time. Stowing her things in Sergeant Milner's office, knowing he wouldn't mind, Sam turned to go only to hear Foyle call out to her.

"You out tonight?"

"Yes, sir. You don't need me any more tonight?" She caught his eye anxiously, hoping he would say no. She so wanted to see Andrew.

He gave a half smile, "No, no you go on. I'll walk."

"You sure?" She didn't like to leave him in the lurch.

"Absolutely," Foyle said warmly, eyes appraising her. "You're looking very…um…"

Sam blushed a becoming pink and felt rather pleased. "Thank you, sir."

"Have a nice time."

She walked away, feeling his eyes on her. Sam realised she quite liked his eyes on her; it made her feel womanly and, for some reason, _grown up_. Thinking with a laugh as she walked to the pub that if _this_ Foyle thought she looked nice, then Andrew surely would too.

Andrew was always so reticent with her; she couldn't put a finger on it, but there was always a hesitation that didn't seem true to character. She had wondered at first if he had second thoughts about stepping out with her, and then settled on that perhaps she didn't look glamorous enough. He had always kept company with such beautiful girls, that perhaps she was left wanting. So, a new dress, a new hairstyle, and a freshly painted face was sure to convince him that she was up to scratch.

Walking along the cobbled streets, Sam admitted she was perhaps in two minds about his hesitance. She was relieved he wasn't overly fresh, but his chaste kisses lacked the intensity she had heard about in other girls stories about their young men. She intended to get to the bottom of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Pilot Officer Andrew Foyle was already seated at the end of the bar, staring in front of him glumly. His second pint was nearly finished and he kept going over the argument with the mechanic, Gordon Drake, in his mind. He shouldn't have shouted, of course, but how was a chap meant to fight off Jerry if couldn't trust his kite? And although the weekend pass should have been something to look forward to, Andrew felt it sit bitterly on his tongue like bile. He was ashamed about the dressing down the Wing Co. had given him.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump and he turned to see Sam standing behind him, looking gorgeous and expectant. He rallied himself slightly, and leant over to give her a kiss.

"Hallo, Sam."

She glowed at him, "So nice to see you, Andrew."

He bit his lip and made a show of ordering them drinks, thinking, _nice to see me in one piece, you mean._

Without waiting, he clicked his pint glass against her sherry he said, "Cheers," taking a long swig.

She looked at him with surprise, but said nothing.

The night didn't progress much better, and Andrew felt himself becoming more withdrawn. He listened to her talk about work with his father, giving non committal responses, just letting her speak. She kept tossing her hair and he noticed it looked different, nice and curly. He should say something about it, he knew, but she was rattling along comfortably and he hadn't the energy. In fact he hardly had enough energy to stand, and he leaned heavily against the bar, head feeling drowsy.

"Oh look, there's Ann with Greville," said Sam as the crowd parted.

Andrew nodded and said gloomily, "He's talking about getting married after the war."

"What's wrong with that," said Sam sharply, turning to him with a frown.

"Making plans? Oh nothing, I suppose."

Sam sighed heavily, and said, "I hate it when you are like this, Andrew."

He grimaced. "I'm being beastly, I know, Sam. I'm sorry. I think I'll shove off."

"Home?" She sounded surprised.

"Yes, I've got a long weekend. Wing Co. says I've got flying fatigue."

"Well, perhaps you have," Sam said stiffly.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Why won't you just talk to me?" Sam said quietly. He almost didn't hear her over the noise of the busy pub.

Ignoring her, he grabbed his flying jacket. He said instead, "I feel rather drunk." He swayed, and Sam put out a hand to steady him.

"Do you want me to drive you?" She was staring into her unfinished drink and Andrew suddenly felt guilty.

"No, best not. Don't want Dad to see."

"Right."

He leant in to give her a kiss goodbye, and she caught his eye, saying firmly, "See you tomorrow."

She held his eye, as if making him promise, and he nodded.

Outside he felt his head clear slightly with the cool air. He kicked at a pebble and shoved his hands in his pocket. _Damn it all and then some._ Why couldn't he have just enjoyed his evening with Sam? He felt guilty for not seeing her home, or complimenting her, or saying nice things to her like any other young man would. His heart just wasn't in it.

Without her chatter beside him, his mind turned back to the afternoon's op which had left him rattled, and the cockpit that wouldn't open. How he would like to pummel Gordon Drake. Perhaps he should have filed a complaint after all. An evening out should have been something fun to take his mind off things, but as it was, he felt he couldn't find the desire for it. He just wanted to sleep.

At the house on Steep Lane, he came in none too quietly, and he noticed the light on in the lounge.

"Andrew?"

"Hallo, Dad. You still up?"

"I didn't expect to see you. Nice surprise." Foyle smiled up at his son as he came in to the lounge.

"Weekend pass." It still felt bitter.

Foyle nodded, the firelight catching his drawn face.

"You're up very late?"

Foyle took up his whiskey glass, not quite meeting Andrew's eye at first. "Y-yep."

Andrew suddenly felt his heart sink. He remembered what day it was and went cold.

"Oh Dad, I'm so sorry." He leant against a chair with a groan, "I should have been there with you."

"No, not at all I didn't expect you."

"I've let you down haven't I? I seem to be letting everyone down at the minute." Andrew felt his eyes prick sharply; a ticking off from the Wing Co, Sam upset with him over a ruined evening, and now his father, left alone to face the graveyard.

Foyle looked at him with some surprise at this, "No of course you haven't let me down."

"I just forgot, Dad. I simply forgot."

"Andrew, it doesn't matter. Really."

"No, nothing much matters these days, does it?" Andrew said, more to himself than to Foyle.

After a moment he added, "I think I'll head to bed."

He saw Foyle look at him with some concern, but nodded saying, "Good night, son. Nice to see you."

As he turned to leave, Foyle said, "Is that lipstick? On your cheek?"

Andrew brushed his cheek, "Is it?" Thinking of his and Sam's secret, he waved it off. "Oh, evening out."

"Colour suits you."

He gave Foyle a weak smile and escaped up the stairs, making his way with the help of the banister. Poor Sam; he'd have to make it up to her. He hoped tonight he would be able to sleep. His legs felt like lead and his head throbbed mercilessly. Andrew felt he could sleep for a month, but was afraid of the dreams that might come find him if he did.

In his childhood room he sat on the bed, staring around at his old things. What did Rugby trophies matter now? He pulled off his boots and still in his uniform, he lay back. An old photo of his mother stood on the bedside table.

Eyes brimming suddenly, Andrew took the picture in hand, tracing the outline of the frame. "I've let you down too, haven't I, Mum?" he said to the picture with a sniff.

He dropped it face down on his chest, putting a hand up to his forehead. He was crying properly now, tears flooding down his cheeks. With a small sob, he curled into a ball on top of his bed. He cried himself into a dreamless sleep, exhaustion claiming him for its own.

In the morning he didn't hear Foyle look in on him, nor notice the cup of tea he placed on the bedside table. He missed the look of pain and worry on his father's face, and didn't stir when Foyle reached out to place the photograph back on the table. In fact, it was nearly ten o'clock before Andrew woke. A sudden rapping on the door made him sit up, and he stumbled his way downstairs.

Answering the door, he winced in the bright light of morning. It was a telegram made out to him. Turning to sit on the bottom step, he ripped it open.

P.O. FOYLE: WING CO TURNER REQUESTS MEETING STOP 1400 HOURS STOP

Holding his aching head in his hands, Andrew looked at the telegram again and then at the clock on the mantle piece. It ticked peacefully and the house was still. Much as it had been since his mother died. Foyle seemed to always move silently about the house, each move measured. Probably why he, Andrew, had always been so loud — making up for the lack of any other noise.

_Mum was always banging about in the kitchen or coming up with silly games for us to play._ He gave himself a shake. Realising he was still in his uniform, he went upstairs, ready to be shod of it. He could smell yesterday's sweat and beer, and he felt his stomach churn.

He went along the landing to the bathroom. Grimacing at his reflection in the mirror in the cold, tiled room, he turned the taps on full. There was a slight mark to show the regulation waterline that his father had made inside the tub.

He sat on the edge of the tub, grappling with buttons, remembering this room from when he was young. He'd sat just here watching his father shave. Hadn't he marvelled at it then? Andrew gave a half smile at the memory; he had admired his father so much.

_Still do_, he reminded himself. The lingering smell of Foyle's aftershave remained even now and Andrew breathed in deeply, finding comfort in the familiar scent.

Turning off the taps, Andrew slid into the steaming water, groaning as it rushed over him. Every muscle seemed to ache, as if he had come up against a gang of ruffians. He leaned back comfortably. It seemed to wash away the previous haze, and he stared at the ceiling thinking about Sam. He thought about what to say to her and how he would apologise.

Poor girl didn't deserve to be lumbered with him; it would have been better not to have started up with her at all, but the trouble was she was just so _lovely_. It didn't matter how black things got, she always had something nice to say and she really was very pretty. If only she hadn't been his father's driver — he would have been far more forward with her and perhaps they would have had more fun.

_We have fun_, Andrew thought, _but I don't dare push for more. Dad really would have something to say._ He slid down further, trying to make the most of the hot water. Reaching for the soap he began to lather, scrubbing violently at his arms. He thought about Greville Woods asking his girl to marry him after the war was over — how could they even think that far ahead? Andrew asked himself if he could imagine marrying Sam.

He had sudden visions of blonde children running amok in Foyle's front room, upsetting chess pieces and clamouring for biscuits. He grinned despite himself. It wouldn't be such a bad thing. She was a jolly girl and it would certainly never be a dull moment with her.

The thought of Greville, however, made him also think of the telegram, and his stomach contracted unpleasantly.

* * *

What had promised to be a lovely evening with her young man had instead been miserable, and Sam went home feeling very small. It wasn't just disappointment, it was a deeper, underlying worry that sat at the back of her mind: Andrew might not have feelings for her.

She had wondered this before, and it bothered her because she felt herself becoming more and more drawn to him. When he was in top form, Andrew was charming and silly, and loads of fun to be around. He had a way of looking at her that filled her with such joy. Yet, he was also very moody and, not unlike his father, drew into himself, not allowing anyone else in. She suspected that father and son were not so different as Andrew claimed. However, if Andrew were to become half the man his father was, she knew she would be lucky. But Andrew was really just still a boy, playing a man's game.

Sam remembered her mother saying to her once that boys never really grow up; there is always a part of them that remains their five year old selves. She saw this most in Andrew's indignant moods, how he would sulk and huff with great sighs. Underlying the exasperation she felt with him was a tinge of protectiveness that made her want to mother him. She wished to make him smile again at all costs, and to hear his pleasant voice say sweet things, but she knew he couldn't be swayed. The choice had to be his.

So while Sam spent the rest of the weekend annoyed with him, she kept her distance and hoped that, in his own time, he would come back to her with a clearer head. With the mishaps at the RAF Burns Hospital, Sam was kept busy, driving Foyle and Milner to and fro.

It was in the moments of quiet, while waiting by the car, or wandering the grounds of the hospital, that Sam thought with a sinking feeling that perhaps Andrew didn't want to see her. A long weekend at home in Hastings, and yet not a dicky bird. She waited in the cold afternoon, thinking perhaps she should seek out Andrew at home. Foyle would just have to find out.

It was with great surprise when she saw Andrew roar up to the hospital on his motorbike not long after this thought.

_Has he come to find me?_

"Andrew?"

"Not now, Sam."

He raced past her into the hospital, leaving her gaping after him, tears pricking her eyes. But when he came back out some time later, her heart leapt into her throat: he looked white as a sheet. Sam went to him, putting a hand on his arm.

"Andrew, what's happened?" She could see that his being here had nothing to do with her, and knew it could only mean bad news.

"It's Greville. He's burnt."

"Oh Andrew…" she felt the tears come in to her eyes again. His voice was soft and low, and she wanted to fold him into her arms.

"He was flying my Spit…the cockpit wouldn't open."

"Andrew your father's here," she began, hoping he understood why she didn't hold him close.

He pulled away from her, "I've got find Drake."

"Andrew, wait," Sam pleaded. But he was already on the motorbike, bringing it roaring into life.

"Find Ann and bring her here." He made it sound like an order.

She gazed after him as he raced down the gravel drive. She had heard the anger in his voice and it worried her.

What frustrated her the most was she couldn't even ask Foyle about Andrew — if he was all right, or if he was resting up at home. She accompanied Foyle and Milner to the show given by the patients at the RAF hospital half-heartedly. While it was nice to be able to sit back and laugh for a change, she couldn't help think that it was Andrew and Greville's young lady, Ann, who needed the cheering up. Foyle caught her eye a few times as they shared laughs over the jokes and songs, and she tried to pay attention lest he catch her miles away.

She couldn't help but think about Ann and Greville. Ann hadn't wanted to see him; and while Sam's sense of duty and loyalty were affronted, a part of her understood. She would be terrified of seeing Andrew burnt and suffering in hospital. But the younger woman's insistence pained her, and no amount of pleading would get Ann to come back to the hospital with her.

From then on, knowing it had been Andrew's Spit Greville had been flying in, Sam kept thinking it might have been Andrew in hospital. She felt sick at the thought. It was one thing to happen to other people, but someone you knew and cared about? To sit next to Foyle in the car and know they couldn't even share their grief.

_No, I would have told him then. I wouldn't let him be alone in suffering._

The thought of Foyle having to suffer made her falter; what must he go through each time Andrew was up and away, flying and fighting for his country?

Sam suddenly realised, with a wave of guilt, that she had always taken it for granted Andrew would be all right. He would return, because of course he must. She worried about him, naturally, but she had never contemplated what she might do if he didn't actually make it home. Now she realised it would not be only her own grief, but the silent suffering of the man beside her each day that would be unbearable.

_Oh Andrew, why won't you talk with me?_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The day had been long and cold, and Sam was looking forward to sitting by a hot fire. Her long, brown overcoat dripped from the rain that wouldn't let up, and as she leapt off her bicycle in front of her billet she felt positively soaked. She gave a start as she heard her name. Whirling round she saw Andrew come from behind a parked delivery van.

"Andrew? What are you doing here?"

"I had to see you, Sam."

His eyes were slightly wild, and she reached for his hand. His fingers were like blocks of ice and with sudden concern, she tugged gently at his sleeve.

"You'd better come in."

She quickly made up a fire in the grate and sat Andrew in front of it.

"I'll make some tea."

Sam clattered around the kitchen, an anxious feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. _Why has he come here? What's he done that he can't go home?_

When she returned to the small, cluttered sitting room of the boarding house she found him gazing into the grate.

"If my landlady finds us, we're both for the high jump." She handed him a teacup and he took it absently, mind elsewhere. "I don't have any whiskey, sorry."

"I had to see you, Sam," he said again.

"What's happened? Shouldn't you be on duty?"

"I've left. I've gone AWOL. I can't go back. I don't care what happens to me."

Sam hesitated, feeling a moment of shock, "But you have to."

She sat forwards looking at him closely, "They'll come looking for you, surely?"

He shook his head, playing with the tea cup.

"What is it, Andrew?" Sam felt that old frustration bubbling up amidst her concern. _Why won't he talk to me?_

After a moment he said, "I'm so tired. For weeks now. I can't eat, or sleep. Sometimes I can't bear that I'm not with you, and other times I don't care if I never see you again."

He looked up, catching her eye, "I know that's horrible, and I certainly don't want it to be true. But it's like you don't exist. Like I live in a different world that you aren't a part of."

Sam felt her cheeks go pink and she replied rather stiffly, "You're just tired."

"I'm not just tired, Sam," Andrew said sharply, "when I saw Greville and the other chaps…in that place….well…"

"But that won't happen to you."

"_It will_." Andrew looked at her imploringly now.

Sam thought he looked as if he were trying to make her believe something fantastic; or as if she wasn't grasping something simple, so blindingly obvious. His face was a picture of earnest desperation. She felt herself soften and she reached out to take his hand.

"It will happen to me, Sam. It was my plane, you see. He flew my op — it should have been me, don't you see?"

She felt him trembling and the teacup rattled against the saucer. She wished she could say something comforting but nothing came to mind. In the end she said softly, "You can't stay here, Andrew. They'll find you. You must go back."

His face broke, crumpling up like a small boy's, "I can't, Sam, I just can't. Oh please don't make me go back."

She took the teacup away from him and pulled him to her. He buried his face in her chest like a child, hiding his face from her.

With a choked voice he whispered from under her arm, "Don't make me go back."

With tears flowing steadily down her own face, she tightened her arms around him. And in a voice she had never used with him, she whispered, "No, darling, I won't. Not today."

* * *

After quickly making sure no one was about, Sam whisked him away upstairs to her room to hide him. She had taken him in hand and was being rather like a school matron, directing him and uttering threats under her breath.

"If anyone hears you, we'll both be out on our noses, so sit down here, yes here, and get your boots off. They'll hear you stomping otherwise. Good, now, get the grate going and make a nice fug in here. Lie down on the bed and have a sleep, no don't argue, you look all in."

She chivvied him about, making sure he did as he was told, chattering quietly the whole time.

"I'm going to make us something to eat. It's a good thing I eat like a farmer's son, they won't notice the portion is a bit big. Now, make yourself at home, but for goodness sake _be quiet_, whatever you do."

With that she was gone, closing the door firmly, leaving Andrew to look at the back of it in some astonishment. He did as he was told, however, and lay down on her bed, praying it wouldn't creak too loudly. He glanced about the room, taking it in, seeing Sam behind each item. The room was situated at the front of the house on the first floor, a large window opening up onto the street. He could hear men busy with the delivery van that he had waited behind earlier.

All at once he felt like a prisoner, hidden away here, and he wondered at himself. How could he be so selfish to put Sam in the firing line? Not only that, but her honour was at stake too. He thought briefly that he should leave right away and hand himself in. His body seemed to grow heavy however, and he was aware of the softness of the bed below him.

_Well, one night won't matter…if only I could sleep_…he drifted off with this thought.

He woke sometime later with a jump, feeling cool fingers smoothing his fringe on his forehead.

"It's only me. Are you hungry?" She was using that unfamiliar voice again, and Andrew felt himself drawn to her like never before. He sat up, rubbing his eyes before reaching out for her. He kissed her firmly, enjoying the feel of her lips under his own.

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, I'm starving."

Sam touched his cheek and stood, going over to the chest of drawers. A tray lay there, on it a plate piled with what looked like a stew. The rich aroma wafted towards him and his stomach gave a growl. Looking back at him over her shoulder she smiled, "Come sit with me?"

He sat himself in the low slung armchair that was missing a cushion and she perched on the small stool next to the dressing table. Pushing aside powder puffs and hairbrushes, she set the tray down carefully.

"We will have to share the plate, I'm afraid. One of the other girls was also using the kitchen and I couldn't secret another out. We're not really meant to eat in our rooms either, but I told her I was dead tired and would be going straight to bed. She's a sweet thing, so won't rat on me."

"You're landlady sounds a bit strict."

"She is," said Sam darkly, taking a hefty bite of stew.

Sam having pulled the blackout curtains across the large window and switched on the small reading lamp made the room felt close and cosy. Andrew gave a quick grin over the top of the plate, balanced on Sam's knee.

"Rather romantic, this, isn't it?"

She arched an eyebrow, "Well, if this is your idea of _romantic_, Andrew Foyle…" she broke off to smile at him.

They ate in silence, passing the plate back and forth. Andrew didn't eat much, which left plenty for Sam to polish off.

He sat back in the armchair, "Really, I'm fine, Sam. Not much of an appetite."

"Do you feel better?"

He smiled at her, "I do, thank you. Nurse Sam, to the rescue."

"Don't make fun."

"I'm not," he said hastily. "You always rescue me, Sam. I love that about you. I know I can always count on you. I'm just sorry I can't return the favour."

He looked away, feeling rather rotten once again. "Sorry for putting you in this position, Sam. I know it isn't fair."

"I'm just glad to be here for you, Andrew." She put the now empty plate aside. "Listen, Sue will be up soon; she's a champion washer upper, and my landlady will be back from her WI meeting any minute. Why don't you quickly wash up across the hall, and I'll stand guard."

Once again, Andrew did as he was told. When he finished, Sam closed the door behind them firmly, and only just in time as they heard Sue treading up the stairs.

"That was close," Andrew said.

Sam shushed him violently, and he grinned.

They listened with baited breath, waiting for her to pass. When she had gone into her room, on the other side of the house, Sam let out her breath slowly.

Andrew watched her turn around to face him. In the soft light of the reading lamp, in only her blouse and skirt, she looked a picture and he smiled softly at her.

"Sam…" he began.

She cut him off with a matter of fact, "Right. You'd better get out of that old uniform."

Andrew gave her a piercing look that would have given his father a run for his money. Sam stifled a laugh. "You're all bundled up. Aren't you perishing yet?"

Andrew realised the room was quite warm now, and after eating he finally felt warm inside too.

Obediently, he pulled off his white flying jumper, the blue, once crisp, shirt underneath coming un-tucked.

"And I'll have you know, it isn't old," he whispered in mock fierceness, "it's jolly new, only three months, this uniform."

A smile played about Sam's lips, enjoying teasing him.

"I'll make up a bed for you."

Taking a spare pillow case out from her drawer, she stuffed it with shirts and other soft clothing to make up a pillow for him. The wool blanket that had been folded neatly at the bottom of her bed she laid out near the grate. Her bed was just above; Andrew watched her make up his bed on the floor as he unbuttoned his shirt, and he suddenly felt shy, like he was seventeen all over again.

Turning back to him she said in a severe whisper, "I'm going for my wash now. Get in to bed and don't make any noise."

Andrew grinned at her, fringe flopping onto his forehead. "Yes, Matron."

She gave his arm a soft punch as she went past, carrying her nightie and toothbrush.

"I've not brushed my teeth, Matron," he whispered, "I've forgotten to bring anything with me."

"Jolly fine plan of escape — haven't even packed a clean shirt or a toothbrush." She gave him an exasperated smile and ducked out of the room.

Crawling into to his "bed" on the floor, Andrew pulled off his trousers and tossed them onto the stool where his coat and jumper lay. He did the same with his light blue shirt, leaving him in only his startling white vest and shorts and navy socks. The wool blanket itched a bit, but it was heavy, and he felt warm.

The shyness was still there, and the thought of Sam returning in just her nightie made him feel twinges of excitement in his belly. _If only I knew the way forward from here…I don't deserve such a great girl as Sam._ He couldn't bear to think about what tomorrow would bring, so he shut his eyes tightly, thinking of Sam instead. It did nothing to calm his nerves, however.

He heard the door creak and the gush of a cold draught came across the floor to make him shiver. It brought with it the sweet smell of Sam's soap. Cracking open one eye, Andrew drew in his breath sharply. The nightie, a sensible number, long and frilly, clung to her curves that, in the soft light, made her most alluring. The cold of the corridor had caused her nipples to peak against the light fabric, and Andrew shut his eyes again, a sense of hopeful anticipation settling deep within him.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

While brushing her teeth and letting down her long curls, Sam stared firmly at her reflection in the glass. _You will drag him to Mr Foyle's tomorrow morning. We will sort this out so he won't get into trouble. And you will not let him anywhere near you tonight. No PWP for this Police Driver._ She nodded at herself, promising her reflection adamantly.

Going back into her room quietly, she heard Andrew's intake of breath. It sent a pleasant shiver down her spine and she set her mouth firmly, remembering what she had told herself. It was an odd feeling, this nervousness. It was expectant and hopeful, and the flutterings inside her were both pleasant and alarming. She slipped into bed noiselessly, leaning over to switch out the light.

"Now no talking," she said, still in mock matron mode. She heard him chuckle.

"Sweet dreams, Sam."

"You too, Andrew."

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

"It's no trouble. Now go to sleep."

"All right."

And much like the rest of the evening, he obeyed. She heard him turn over and within five minutes his breathing became heavy and measured. Listening to him for awhile, Sam let her thoughts wander. She was so glad he was here, even if it was risky for them both. Here, he was safe, away from faulty cockpits and fire and bullets. The despair she had seen in him today was stuck inside her chest, feeling weighty. She was deeply worried for Andrew. He was quick to anger and despair, and she was concerned not only for his absence without leave, but the way he had gone off looking for Drake. Desperate men are capable of unlikely actions.

She wondered for a brief moment if he would ever be the same again. Would he be his lovely self after all of this was over? In between moments of what they would say to Foyle and the seriousness of what tomorrow would bring came unbidden images of Andrew's arms around her, looking as he had been — carefree and boyish; another of his kiss heavy on her lips; lastly came an image of his body above hers, and the rush of warmth that coursed through her made her sit up. She shook her head in annoyance at herself, fluffed her pillow and lay down again, turning her back to the sleeping man beside the grate.

When she woke some time later, she was disorientated. It seemed like she had only been asleep for five minutes but the small clock on the bedside table showed two a.m with its luminous hands. For a moment all she heard was the ticking before the noise that had awoken her came again, chilling her to the bone with fright. Suddenly remembering it was Andrew lying there, she let out her breath, whispering his name.

He groaned again, none too quietly, and in sudden panic of being discovered, she leapt out of bed, going to his side. Giving his shoulder a mighty shake, Andrew woke with a small cry. Sam hissed, "Quiet, it's me, Andrew. You were dreaming."

The young man was panting. Sam felt his chest rise and fall under her hand.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but you must be quiet. If my landlady hears…you'll get us shot." Her voice was crisp with agitation.

Clearing his throat, Andrew raised a hand to rub his forehead, "Sorry, Sam."

"You all right?"

"I was dreaming…"

The images must have come back to him with force, because all at once he was crying again, silent tears dripping down the side of his face.

"I was flying, and a fire broke out and I couldn't get away…"

His voice was small and vulnerable in the darkness and Sam reached for his arm. "Come to bed."

She wasn't sure what made her say it, but she was shivering with cold and fright. His choked voice was terrifying in the dark. Tugging his arm, she led him back to her warm bed, laying on her side to make space for him on the narrow mattress. She saw with a jolt of surprise that he was only in his vest and shorts.

He slid in beside her, trembling violently. Sam heard his teeth chattering and she wrapped him up in her arms, pulling the eiderdown close around them. In a soft voice that she realised she had only ever used with him, she murmured in his ear, "I've got you, my darling. You are safe here. I won't let you go." Her grip on him tightened and he inched closer, fresh sobs causing his shoulders to shake.

"My darling, my darling," she continued to whisper. She was trembling now too; it began in her legs, coursing up through her body. She felt close to despair. _What can I say to him? Oh, his crying is awful...like the world is ending_. Trying hard not to cry herself, she soothed him the best she could. He tucked himself into the crook between her shoulder and neck, snuffling and breathing damply.

It soon subsided and she felt his shoulders relax. Sam forgot the stern talking to she had given herself in the mirror and did what felt natural, which was to kiss him. She found his lips, tasting the salt of his tears.

"Oh Andrew," she murmured.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry for everything." His voice was still tight and choky.

"I would do anything to make it better for you, but I haven't a clue where to begin. But you're safe here, so relax now and try to forget the dream."

His breathing was even now and he snuggled back into the crook of her neck, lips whispering over the soft skin there, caressing and tentative.

Sam felt her legs begin to shake again, and an excitement that frightened her pulsed through her.

"Andrew," she whispered in some panic, "We can't…I can't…be intimate with you."

He pulled back, giving her an amused look.

"It's your father, you see, and…"

Andrew rose up on one elbow, "_My father_?" He looked incredulous now. "What on earth has my father got to do with this?"

"He can read me like a book, Andrew. He would know right away. He'd pack me off to Lyminster…or worse, tell my father. They'd never let me out of the vicarage; I'd be married off to some horrible farmer's son…."

She was rambling now, and Andrew shushed her gently with a finger to her lips. His hair flopped across his forehead and he gave her a sudden grin, "Well, if that's all. You had me worried for a moment." He stole a brief kiss.

"_Andrew_."

"Sam, I wouldn't dare, believe me."

"You don't…you don't want me?" She looked hurt and confused when Andrew gave a short chuckle.

"Quite the contrary. But your father is a vicar, mine is a policeman — we'd both of us be hung and quartered. Why do you think I've always been so…I already feel a cad for compromising you by coming here like this…"

Sam's sigh of relief cut him off and she burrowed into his chest. "Thank God," she said irreverently.

Andrew pushed gently at her shoulder, turning her to face him, "You thought…? Oh Sam."

He crushed her lips, gently folding her in his arms beneath him. "My darling, beautiful, brave, incredible, Samantha."

She smiled in spite of herself against his lips, and he laughed. "I don't deserve you, not one bit. I'm sorry I haven't been good to you; I should have told you a thousand times how beautiful you are."

He continued in a serious whisper, "I admire you so much, you know. And I loved that dress you wore the other night. I'm sorry I've been in such a mood. I should have told you how lovely and wonderful you are. How much I love your hair as it falls across your shoulders."

He kissed her shoulder, pushing aside the frilly edge of her nightie. "I should write you reams of poetry every day."

"You do," she said with a laugh.

"Well, yes…but what I mean to say is…I should have told you how much you mean to me. Really mean to me. I'd not be here without you, dear Sam."

Her eyes grew misty as she looked up at him. "I'm so proud of you, Andrew."

He gave a small huff of short laughter, "Even now, hiding away under the bedsheets."

"Even now." She pulled him down to meet her lips, "My strong, handsome pilot."

Sam had stopped trembling now, focused as she was on exploring his lips. She opened her mouth to him, feeling his tongue pressing inquiringly at her bottom lip. It was wonderful being held in his arms like this. She felt the power of his muscles bunching and rolling in his arms and shoulders. Feeling safe, she allowed some part of herself to give in to him. To let him wash over her like a great wave, sweeping her up in the moment.

"I like this, Andrew," she admitted softly, her voice unsteady. Was she meant to to enjoy this? Sam felt a bit guilty and surprised at herself. Her body seemed to react without thought.

"I do too. You're lovely and soft." He tickled her and she giggled. He added more seriously, "You're beautiful."

His hands began an exploration of her curves and when his fingers found the hem of her nightie and began to pull upwards, she stiffened.

"Andrew, we can't."

"I know, Sam," he said in that way of his, putting her at ease. She relaxed against his hands.

He looked at her shyly, "I just want to see you. I want to be close to you, that's all. I respect you, Sam, and I promise you we will do nothing you don't want to do."

Sam pushed his fringe away, enjoying the boyish eyes full of nervousness that stared back at her. "All right."

They sat up. He pulled the nightie over her head, letting his hands trace the outline of her.

"Andrew?"

"Hmm?" he hummed, lips at her throat, working downwards, hands busy with memorising the shapes of her.

"How can you see me properly if it is pitch dark?"

"Yes, well…"

His hands continued their way along her and she giggled again.

Sam felt emboldened by the cover of darkness, and she surprised him by peeling off his vest. Her fingers curled into the wiry hair on his chest. She loved the smell of him, and pulling him close she breathed him in deeply. The feel of his strong chest against her already sensitive skin gave her a shiver of pleasure. Andrew pulled them back down under the eiderdown, assuming she was cold. He nestled close, tucking themselves in. He snaked his arm around her middle, pulling her against him.

"I'm glad you let me hide away here."

"I want to help you; I care about you."

"I know, I'm very lucky. I don't deserve you at all."

"I think your father suspects something."

"What do you mean?"

"He was questioning me about knowing Greville, saying that I must have seen you about if I knew him."

Andrew chuckled, "Typical Dad."

"He's too good for us, Andrew. He will find out." She paused. "I don't like keeping things from him."

Andrew stroked her hair, "I know you don't. You're awfully loyal, Sam."

"Well, it just feels dishonest. Like I'm betraying his trust."

"Funny, I feel the same."

"Do you?"

"Hmm, as if he would disapprove of me stepping out with you."

"But you're his son."

"Exactly." Andrew laughed softly, tucking his nose in just behind Sam's ear. "If I were him, I wouldn't want me running after you either."

"Now you tell me." She pinched him playfully.

"Well, he knows me well. I've not always been the best example of gentlemanliness. Unlike him."

"I'm sure he had his moments. We're all young once — that's what my Uncle Aubrey always says, anyway."

"I think Mum's death really changed him."

Sam turned her head slightly to see him, "How?"

"I'm not sure. I just know he's different. They sort of complimented each other and brought out the best in each other, if you know what I mean."

Sam nodded against his arm, "Yes, I know."

She added, "Do you think of her often?"

"Not really. Isn't that bad? No, I've a hard time remembering her now. I wish I could picture her better."

"You were so young. Only eight. A lot has happened in between."

"Yes. But I remember it being a happy time, so that's something."

"You poor Foyles. You never talk about these things, and yet look, don't you feel better for it?"

"I suppose." Andrew gave a small yawn. "We Foyles tend to keep things inside, don't we?"

"You're telling me — trying to get a straight answer out of your father is like pushing water uphill sometimes."

"What's it like working with him — really, I mean? I think you see more of him than I ever did."

"He's brilliant — at his job obviously, but also at putting people at ease or making them feel useful. He treats me like one of the team and always answers my questions, even if it is with 'subject off limits'. A very kind man…in his own laconic way."

She paused thoughtfully, "I think he is a man full of emotions that he won't allow himself to express."

"Reticent, that's Dad."

"Yes, but, he holds himself back for a reason, I just don't know what it is."

"Well, you puzzle it out and let me know," Andrew said sleepily.

Sam felt his arm become heavy on her middle and she pushed it down to her hip.

"Hmm?" he stirred, already half asleep.

"He's a good man, Andrew, like you." She leaned around to kiss him. "Just like you."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: It was rather, erm, a long night...do bear with me...

* * *

Chapter 5

Andrew woke at quarter past four in the morning, according to the little clock on the bedside table. He gave a small sigh — he'd only been asleep for another hour. He was boiling hot and Sam's shoulder blade was poking him uncomfortably. Peeling himself away from her, he pushed back the eiderdown to let the night air cool him. Doing his best not to disturb Sam he slipped from the bed; he was thirsty and remembered Sam had left a glass of water on the dressing table.

Padding across the room, he found the glass and drank gratefully. He went to the window and pushed back the blackout curtain an inch or two, gazing out into a night already tinged with a soft blue of the oncoming morning. A leaden weight seemed to sink through him; he knew Sam would try to convince him to go back today. The thought of returning set him shaking again, and he took a gulp of water to try to fight down the nausea that washed over him.

If he was court martialed, he'd probably lose his pay, and they might lock him up. At least he'd be safe then…wouldn't have to fly. Hadn't he said just as much to his father? _I was glad Greville got the op…I was relieved…I didn't want to fly. Didn't want to go anywhere near it._ And of course, Foyle, being practical said that even though he'd rather Andrew never fly again, they _both_ knew that wasn't about to happen.

Foyle was right of course. He always was. Flying was something Andrew loved, it was his job, and he couldn't let something that hadn't happened to him yet scare him off. He'd had a lucky break…at cost to Greville…but surely he owed it to Greville to get back up there? To him and all the other chaps…_What did Dad say? We have to take it day by day and get through it?_

Andrew felt a wave disgust at himself…hiding away like this and hoping for a court-martial so he could continue hiding. He leant his forehead against the cool glass of the window, sighing heavily. _Is this what I've become? A coward?_

A rustle behind him made him turn and he saw Sam roll over looking for him.

"Andrew?"

He tried to answer, but his voice seemed stuck in his throat somewhere. His face was answer enough however, and Sam crossed to him quickly, finding his eyes.

"What is it, Andrew? Are you all right?"

He cleared his throat, but still his voice came out with a slight squeak, "I was thinking about Greville."

Sam put her arms around his waist.

"I'm such a coward, Sam…"

"You most certainly are not." She looked at him with sudden severity.

"I've done terrible things…let my anger get the better of me. I've run away from my duty, from my friends, my love of flying, Dad, everything."

"You've run to _me_ though, haven't you? And I'm going to help you. You are _not_ alone in this, Andrew."

Her calm voice settled him, and he nodded.

"You've had a jolly rotten knock and need to recover. Just because your knock isn't visible like Greville's doesn't mean it isn't there. We will sort this out."

Pulling her into an embrace, Andrew said shakily, "You really are astounding, darling Sam."

He realised they were huddled in half nakedness and thought how absurd it was that he'd brought all this upon Sam.

"And you are fat head, letting your thoughts get the better of you." Her tone was light, trying to tease and bring him away from the darkness he had let engulf him.

"What would I do without you to set me straight, eh?"

"You all right now? I don't mean to be harsh, but you can't let this beat you."

"Yes…all right now." His breath was still shaky but he felt the blackness retreating.

"Come back to bed then."

"You sure?"

In answer Sam kissed him.

They slid back into bed, sighing as they lay back. Sam curled into Andrew's chest, hand over his heart.

"You mustn't keep me out, or your father. We want to help, and perhaps talking will…I don't know, set things out more clearly for you?"

Andrew sighed, "I know, Sam. I just…talking with Dad has never been easy. He's always right, which makes any argument impossible."

Sam snorted, "Too true."

"Besides, I wouldn't know what to say. That I'm frightened?"

"Yes, begin there." She nuzzled against him, "I want to know."

"All right. Well, I'm jolly terrified, Sam." Andrew put a hand behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.

"It makes me want to run and keep on running until I'm far away from everything and everyone. It feels like my luck has run out. Even after I was shot down and was in hospital I didn't feel like this. I wanted to get back out there and give Jerry what for. Now…I think I…well, I feel I'm no match for them. They'll catch me and shoot me down and…"

The trembling had begun again and he said roughly, "Damn it all, I wish I could stop this infernal shaking. It makes me feel sick all over."

Hearing the impatience he was feeling with himself, Sam reached up putting a hand on his cheek. "One step at a time. You are an exceptional pilot. That's been proven. So, with a little time, you will regain your confidence and Jerry won't know what has hit them."

"You make it sound so easy, Sam," Andrew said a little sulkily.

"I know it isn't so cut and dry, but you've got to begin somewhere," she retorted, her own impatience getting the better of her. "You can't let it rule you."

He sat up, "I know!" He said it fiercely and Sam sat up too, touching his arm.

"Sorry." He turned to her, face suddenly ashamed and the anger gone, "Oh Sam, I'm so very, very sorry."

* * *

His anger didn't frighten her. Sam was more concerned than anything, and feeling rather at a loss. She tried her best to be practical with him. When he turned to her with a shamed face, she put an arm around his shoulders. She could tell he was sorry for more than his burst of anger. Sam thought he was perhaps a bit sorry for himself as well and her heart went out to him all the more.

Andrew held his head between his hands, "I'm not angry with you at all. I'm angry with myself. I can't see a way forward. I know it should be simple, I know it, and yet…where do I go from here?"

"It takes time, I'm afraid, darling," she said softly, kissing his shoulder blade.

"Time I don't have."

"Well, I haven't got be at your father's until 8.30, so why don't we work with the time we _do_ have and then go from there?"

She shot him a smile and pulled him back down beside her.

"What did you have in mind?" Andrew asked in a whisper, his old cheekiness suddenly shining through.

"Imp," she accused playfully.

His hands were in her hair now, caressing and pulling her towards him. "I've been beastly when you least deserve it, Sam. I hope I can make it up to you. I know it's a cheek to ask, but do you forgive me?"

"Nothing to forgive," she said simply, meeting his lips.

Now Sam allowed her own hands to wander and explore, her curiosity getting the better of her. She felt the tension in his muscles and wished to ease them. She kneaded a knot in his left shoulder and he gasped.

With concern she asked, "Am I hurting you?"

"No, it feels marvellous. I hadn't even realised I was so tense."

Turning him on to his front, she rubbed and prodded, leaving no bit of his shoulders and back untouched. She felt the tension slipping away. He felt magnificent under her hands, and her ministrations left him loose in her arms. He grinned over at her lazily.

"You consistently amaze me, you know that?"

"Yes, I'm full of hidden talents."

"I don't doubt that for a minute…"

He rolled them both over, and Sam found herself suddenly looking up into mischievous eyes. "Lovely girl," he murmured, capturing her lips, "let me make it up to you."

And he did. In splendid fashion, throwing himself into the task at hand. She felt an excitement welling up in her and she tried to push it away. But his hands were finding new, sensitive places and she realised she was straining and arching against him. Moving towards him greedily, trying to capture all of him. His lips ghosted over her now heaving chest, and it was hard to keep her breath from coming out in gasps. With some alarm she felt his palpable excitement too, his motions becoming more concentrated and eager.

"Andrew, we can't…" she said again, reminding him gently. She felt slight panic at the newness of it all and fear at her own overwhelming emotions.

"I know, I know. I haven't forgotten," he sighed, slowing his eagerness.

"I'm sorry." She felt a frustration that she couldn't explain.

"Don't be, really."

Letting his head droop on her shoulder, he took a deep breath. He felt heavy against her and she moved to accommodate his weight. In doing so she unconsciously ground her hips against him and he groaned loud and long.

"Shh! Whatever is the matter?"

"Your hidden talents." He groaned again, more softly this time and rolled over onto his back beside her.

Sam missed his comforting weight against her. Rising up on an elbow she looked at him in bewilderment. To her surprise he was breathing heavily, eyes closed, a soft sheen of sweat on his brows.

"Andrew? Have I done something wrong?"

He began to chuckle and opened one eye to look at her. "You've done everything right and then some. I'm trying to be a decent fellow and having rather a battle with myself."

She chewed her lip, saying finally, "Well, you aren't new to battle, so I'm sure the decent fellow will win."

Andrew laughed then, pulling her to him. "Indeed."

She yawned and snuggled into him. "I'm being selfish in saying this, but I'm glad you are here. I like you being here."

"I like being here too."

She yawned again. "We'd better sleep, Andrew."

"Easy for you to say," he teased, "leaving me all hot and bothered."

"Have I?"

"Never mind, Sam." He chuckled.

"I say, Andrew, I didn't mean to."

"It's no fault of yours," he said, squeezing her shoulder. "You can't help being so lovely and delightful."

"Oh well, in that case…" she said sleepily, a soft smile playing about her lips.

He leaned in to crush her lips, capturing her smile for his own.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I realise Drake's murder was earlier in the episode, but I've played with the sequence of events slightly here.

* * *

Chapter 6

They woke each other up again just before six a.m by rolling into one another on the narrow mattress and knocking their heads on the pillow.

"_Andrew_."

They both sighed, moving to get comfortable again.

"I'm restless. Sorry, Sam."

"You're worse than a child in your sleeping habits," she said grumpily, rubbing her head.

"Well I was dreaming of you, if it's any consolation." He chuckled, kissing her forehead, "Go back to sleep."

"I'm awake now." Her voice was still grumpy, slightly husky from sleep.

"Well, so am I." He pressed against her; his hand rested comfortably on a breast and in a moment of mischief, he gave her a pinch.

She gave a small yelp. "You rotter," she growled at him, turning on him with fervour.

Andrew chuckled at her, which only spurred her on. She untangled herself from his limbs and sat astride him, pining him down.

"Now, listen, you…"

The surprise and pleasure in Andrew's face was reflected in her own, and a sudden glint came into Sam's eye. Andrew's lips curled downwards into an all knowing smile that reminded her forcefully of another Foyle.

"Behave."

"Or what?" came Andrew's whispered challenge.

She attacked him with her lips, taking out her earlier frustrations. Andrew gave as good as he was given, and soon their wrestling left them laughing and short of breath.

A sudden thump in the corridor made them freeze.

"Oh hell," Andrew said.

Sam collapsed into a giggling fit, burying her face into Andrew's chest, shaking with mirth.

"Are you mad? Quiet!" hissed Andrew in her ear. The fresh stubble on his chin tickled her ear which didn't helped matters.

They heard footsteps pass by and the creak of the bathroom door. Sam was still giggling by the time the plumbing was clunking and the footsteps had retreated.

"My darling girl wants me strung up in the town centre, I see," he retorted once the coast was clear.

"I'm sorry," Sam gasped, "it all just struck me as funny."

The attempt at a stern look from Andrew set her off again.

Soon Andrew was laughing silently as well, shaking his head at her and grinning toothily. Their pent up emotions raced from them to collide in the morning air, their bodies trembling with mirth, leaving them spent and slumped against each other.

He slung an arm around her and was asleep before Sam could speak. The laugh had done him good, and she kissed him softly, watching him in the early light that peeked around the edge of the curtain.

* * *

Sam checked the small clock again and seeing the time, roused herself from her reverie by the window. Her eyes on the still sleeping Andrew, she quietly pulled her uniform out, picked up a few bits and pieces and went across the corridor quietly. She washed and dressed quickly, trying to avoid looking at her reflection in the mirror. She was rather afraid it would look reproachfully at her.

Andrew hadn't stirred when she came back into the room. She took his clothes off the stool and sat down, pinning up her hair more severely than she had intended. She allowed herself to study her face now. For all her concern that she would look different, it was still her same self that looked back at her. In the morning light she saw the dark circles under her eyes and the tension in her brows. Sam knew she would have to face Foyle alone.

For all the talking and the minor threats of the night, she knew Andrew would panic. It was too soon. She knew him: he would have to make the decision himself. Dragging him to Foyle's house wouldn't help. Better for him to stay here until she could come for him…with Foyle as backup and talk things through.

Slipping downstairs she made tea and toast quietly, glad that no one else was about just yet. She made extra and took it up with her. Laying it on the dressing table, she thought again about waking him. Instead, she scribbled a hasty note and stuck it in the mirror for him to see later.

_A,  
I'll be back about midday.  
Don't worry yourself with thinking; we'll get it sorted.  
Love, S_

She leaned down to give him a kiss and he stirred slightly.

"I've left you some toast; see you soon, all right?" she whispered.

He gave a grunt, but didn't wake entirely. She left him where he lay, slipping out into the bright day.

On the drive to Steep Lane, Sam worried her lip, pinching it between her teeth. She felt full of nerves at the thought of approaching Foyle with Andrew's dilemma. There was no way around telling him the whole truth.

To her surprise Foyle was already opening the door as she pulled up. She barely had time to pull the handbrake.

"Sir?" she called, ducking her head to look at him from the side window.

"There's been a murder, Sam. I've just had the Sergeant on the telephone." Foyle piled in beside her in the Wolseley. "Quick now, to the RAF Burns Hospital at Digby Manor."

Sam gave him a searching look, eyes wide.

"A mechanic, with the RAF I believe, has been found outside his cottage. Wife found him."

"A mechanic, sir?"

"Drake. Gordon Drake."

Sam went cold. A series of images flew through her mind. What had he said? _I've done such terrible things…I've let my anger get the better of me…_

"You all right?"

Sam turned her attention back driving, realising the engine was groaning at her. She ground the gears into third.

"Yes, sorry, sir. It's just I think I know who he is. He works on the same airfield as…your son. A friend of mine, Ann, is walking out with a pilot there called Greville Woods."

She felt him fixing her with an intent gaze and she swallowed heavily.

"Really." He turned away to look back out the window. "Huh..."

Though Sam was desperate to tell him, her sudden and unpleasant thought of Andrew's possible involvement kept her quiet. She couldn't believe Andrew had killed Drake, but a nagging thought that he may be involved somehow filled her with dread. Keeping him hidden for now until they knew more might be best.

At the cottage, she watched Foyle and Milner walk about the body, straining her ears for any clues. It was cold and the two men hunched their shoulders, talking quietly. They went in to speak with Drake's wife, and Sam waited by the car, trying to catch the eye of the Constable on duty to see if she could pry any information from him.

They were at the Manor most of the morning. It was nearly twelve when they returned to the station in Hastings. Foyle hadn't said much and Sam didn't dare ask as he kept glancing over at her. She was sure to be rumbled if she opened her mouth. She'd have to ask Milner when they got back. _He will tell me what they think about Drake's murder, _she reassured herself.

As they came through the swinging doors of the station, Sam's heart leapt into her throat. A rather important looking RAF Wing Commander was standing by the desk, waiting impatiently.

"Ah, here he is, sir," said the desk sergeant.

"Mr Foyle, I'm Wing Commander Turner." The two men shook hands. "I wonder if I might have a word…"

Sam watched Foyle lead the way to his office down the corridor. Once the door was shut she followed, standing as close as she dared, fiddling with her driving gauntlets. She didn't want to eavesdrop, but if she could hear something, then maybe she could slip out and find Andrew.

She had no chance, however, for the conversation was over quickly. The Wing Co. left Foyle's office door open, putting Sam in perfect view. Foyle caught her eye, fixing her with a look that left her knowing she was beaten. He crooked his head, gesturing her to come in.

She obeyed, closing the door softly and not meeting his eyes. Once in front of his desk however, she straightened up, hands behind her back and chest thrust out. She would take it on the chin, whatever he said.

"Sam."

Still not meeting his eyes, she replied, "Sir."

"He's got until two o'clock to be back on base otherwise he will be charged with desertion."

Foyle paused, fixing her with a steely gaze. "Do you know how serious that is?"

Her lip began to tremble. She had intended to be brave, but with one look from Foyle she was ready to tell him anything. The fleeting thought of _I'd never stand up to torture_ passed through her mind before she nodded.

"He won't be in trouble if he's back before then, you understand. But he must go back on his own volition."

She nodded again, voice temporarily stuck.

"So…"

Finally meeting his eyes, she saw with relief the softness there. The concern, not just for Andrew, but for them both, and the desire to put things right shone out from the blue of his eyes. Foyle smiled gently at her.

She cried openly then and began to speak with a relief that was apparent to them both. Secrets had been held long enough.

"We've been stepping out, Mr Foyle, for months now. I've wanted to tell you, and I feel so terribly rotten for not doing so before. We weren't sure if you'd approve, and it didn't seem wrong at first. But you've always trusted me and now I've let you down, and I am sure you will send me packing, but…I care about Andrew."

Foyle tried to get a word in, but in typical Sam fashion she carried on, unable to stop now she'd started.

"I'm so worried for him, sir. You see, he hasn't been at all himself. He's got some sort of Flying Fatigue, or at least that's what he told me his Wing Co. said. He's in an awful jam, can't seem to see a way forwards, and I've tried to help, but I just don't know what to do. I don't want him to be in any trouble, I want to help him. And I know he can't have had anything to do with Drake's murder either. And —"

Foyle cut her off now, "Drake's murder? Of course he hasn't got anything to do with it."

"Oh. Well, good." Sam paused for breath, sniffing and pushing a few tears away.

Foyle took the opportunity to jump in before she continued on, saying, "I want to help him too. Let's go find him and return him to base, shall we?"

He came around the side of the desk, handing her his hanky as he passed. Jamming his hat on his head and pulling on his coat, he gave her a minute.

Sam wiped her face hurriedly, feeling a bit silly. "All present and correct, sir, thank you."

"Jolly good."

"Are you very angry with us?" she asked tentatively.

"Not in the slightest." He shot her a smile and nodded to the door. "Now, come on."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

They drew up in front of Sam's billet and before switching the motor off, she turned to Foyle with an intake of breath.

"Sir? Perhaps you would like to speak to him on your own?"

Foyle smiled, "Good idea. Why don't you wait around the corner by the pub. I'll have chat with Andrew, give him a drink, and then you can drive him back to base."

Nodding, Sam watched him get out, putting the car into gear and pulling away once he knocked on the door. Her face was still a bit red from admitting she had allowed Andrew to stay with her overnight at her digs.

Andrew opened the door on the second knock, looking very surprised to see Foyle. He had been expecting Sam back at midday and it was gone one o'clock already.

"Dad? How did you find me?"

"How do you think? Come on, get your coat. Let's have a drink."

They walked slowly towards the pub on the corner. Andrew looking miserably at the ground in front of him. Foyle bumped his shoulder with his own softly, causing the young man to look up.

"It's going to be all right, Andrew. Turner came to see me. He wants you back."

"For the court martial?"

"No. Well, as long as you're back by two o'clock."

They entered the pub, which at this hour was quiet and still.

"Have a seat, I'll be right there."

Andrew sat, noticing the shafts of sunlight coming through the old windows and how it caught the dust floating. He felt he was in a dream.

"Get this in you and you'll feel better."

"Thanks, Dad." Andrew took a sip of the whiskey and scratched at his unshaven chin, thinking he probably looked a sight.

"So you know about me and Sam, then?"

Foyle sat opposite him, pushing his hat higher on his forehead. "I do."

"Sorry."

"What on earth for?"

"Well, she is your driver and…"

"Yes, she's my very…" Foyle laboured over the word, "_attractive_ driver, and it's perfectly understandable."

"I've let everyone down, haven't I, Dad?" Andrew asked slowly.

"No Andrew, that's not the case. Turner thinks you've got a sort of, um, Combat Fatigue. He understands and wants you back. You see…he understands that sometimes we ask too much. It's like another way of being…burnt."

Andrew nodded, the whiskey starting to warm his insides. "Sam explained it that way too. I just got overwhelmed, Dad. I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"And I'm also sorry I didn't come to you sooner…I know who killed Gordon Drake. I went to his house… to give him a bit of a push around or something; I don't know what I was thinking. But anyway, someone was already there. They bashed him on the head and ran away. I've felt awful for not coming to tell you. But, I was so angry at Drake for what happened to Greville that…well, I couldn't blame the chap. I know that's horrible."

"Well, I know who killed him too." Foyle looked at his watch. "Come on, now, we don't want you to be late. Sam will drive you."

"I'd rather go in on my bike…"

"You haven't got the time. She'll drive you. You can walk in on your own. No Police escort."

Andrew gave a soft smile, "Righto." He finished his drink and stood, following Foyle towards the door.

Just before they went through, Foyle stopped. Thrusting a forefinger at his son's chest he said, "I should really box your ears, Andrew. Putting her in a precarious position like that. Sam doesn't deserve it…I know she is kind and wouldn't have dreamed of turning you away. But for God's sake, Andrew, _think_ next time, will you."

Though his words were sharp, his tone was not. More exasperation than annoyance. Andrew looked surprised, and felt inclined to smile at his father's indignation. He wisely kept still.

"And another thing," Foyle added, opening the door, "she deserves to be treated well and with respect."

"I know, Dad. I think the world of her. She's a wonderful girl. Someone special."

Foyle nodded, saying wistfully, "That is she is. And don't you forget it."

"I know I don't deserve her. She's too good for me, but I don't know where I'd be without her."

"Me either." Foyle's voice was very soft and Andrew wasn't sure if he had heard him.

He was distracted by the sight of Sam pulling the Wolseley around. She waved at the two men before stopping.

"Right, off you go, on the double."

"Aren't you coming too, sir?"

Foyle resettled his hat more firmly on his head and did up his coat. He said meaningfully, "I'll walk. See you later."

Andrew and Sam watched him walk away, before turning to each other. He slid in next to her, smiling shyly.

"Hallo."

"You all right?"

"Yes, thanks. Dad bought me drink."

"Talked it all out?"

"Yes. Wing Co. wants me back, so that's something."

"You'll be fine, Andrew," said Sam warmly. She reached across to take his hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Thanks, Sam." He squeezed her hand in return. "Thanks for everything. I know the circumstances weren't great, but I had a nice time with you."

He grinned shyly, and she went a lovely pink.

"Yes, it was rather splendid."

They both laughed and continued to hold hands until the gate of the RAF base came into view.

"Stop here, if you would, Sam."

She pulled the handbrake and tried to smile. "Good luck, Andrew."

He leaned over and kissed her, reveling in the now familiar feel of her lips.

"If this is goodbye, Sam, well…know I care for you and I won't forget your kindness and support."

"They aren't going to lock you up, Andrew," she murmured.

He kissed her more deeply, "Just in case."

She giggled and gave him a push, "Go on now, before your time is up."

He jumped out of the car, shut the door and leaned through the window. "I…"

He sighed with a grin and shrugged, looking a bit lost and yet more his old self. He waved at her. Sam watched him enter the gatehouse and show his identity papers. He didn't look back.

* * *

Andrew stood on the edge of the tarmac, enjoying a second cigarette, the words of praise from Wing Commander Turner still ringing in his ear. Greville was going to be all right too, he'd said. Good news all round, really.

_I've been promoted, and no more ops. Golly, I've really made it through._ Andrew took a long drag, letting the smoke out slowly, and thought warmly that Turner was a good sort. He had stuck by his pilots and was understanding if not firm. Andrew was grateful he hadn't had the book thrown at him. Promotion and a new posting was certainly a surprise. He hadn't expected to be rewarded for taking measures into his own hands.

The sun was just dipping down now. Thinking he should really go pack his things as he was flying up to Debden tomorrow, he sauntered back towards the huts, hands in his pockets. He had put on a fresh uniform and shaved, and felt a weight lifted off his shoulders.

It was a shame Debden wasn't closer by. He would miss Sam. He had missed her before, but now…it wasn't the same and he knew he'd feel lost without her. He thought of her until he reached the Wing. Co.'s hut. Struck by a sudden idea, he rapped on the door, hoping Turner was still there.

"Yes, come in."

Turner looked up as Andrew saluted smartly.

"What do you want, Foyle?" He looked busy, lamp burning brightly over strewn files on his desk.

"I know it's an awful cheek, sir, but would it be possible for me to take my best girl and my dad to dinner. They don't know I'm leaving tomorrow, sir, and well, I'd like to tell them in person and say goodbye."

Turner gave him a stern look before glancing at his watch. "You'll want to take her dancing afterwards, I suppose?"

"Well, she'd rather expect it, I think, sir." Andrew bit his lip, trying not smile.

"Cheeky sod," Turner muttered. "Right, back by eleven o'clock, _sharp_, mind, otherwise I'll have your guts for garters. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And, um, my motorbike is still at my father's, I don't suppose…"

Turner looked ready to either laugh out loud or burst a vein. "Yes, yes, all right. Ask one of the lorry men to give you lift. I don't know where you get your boldness from, really I don't. Now be off with you before I change my mind."

Andrew saluted jauntily, giving Turner a grin as he left. "You're a real brick, sir," he said, turning to scarper before the Wing Co. threw something at him.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The lorry dropped him off at the Hasting's Police station. Andrew had a hunch that his father would be busy tying up any loose ends of the case. Especially if he knew who had killed Drake. As he came in through the swinging doors to the foyer, he heard Sergeant Rivers exclaim, "Well, bless me, if it isn't young Andrew Foyle."

The old sergeant came around the desk and shook hands warmly. He had been at Hastings so long that he remembered when Andrew had been in short trousers, holding the hand of his mother when they brought lunch to the then Detective Inspector Foyle.

"Aren't you looking smart? They looking after you all right up there?"

"Yes, thanks, Mr Rivers. Never better. I say, is Dad about?"

"He is indeed, my boy, he and Mr Milner have just tied up a nasty murder case. You go on through if you like."

Before he could however, he heard Foyle speaking. They saw him come down the corridor with Sam and Milner.

Milner spotted him first. "Hallo, Andrew."

Sam and Foyle, who'd had their heads together in conversation, looked up quickly.

Andrew's face split into a wide grin.

Foyle grinned back, "Andrew. So they haven't put in chains then?"

"No. It all went well. Turner was understanding, and he's let me out for the evening too."

He grinned over at Sam, "Thought I'd better take you both out for dinner. You know, thanks and all that."

"Ooh, lovely, Andrew. I'm starving!"

"Sounds good," said Foyle, "I'll get my hat. Meet you in the car."

They said goodbye to Milner and Rivers and went through the doors. Andrew offered an arm to Sam and lead her outside.

"I've got some news as well, Sam. I want to tell you and Dad over dinner."

"Good news?"

"Yes."

Andrew looked about them, but in the dark evening there was no one around. He snuck a kiss. "I don't know how I can ever thank you for standing by me, Sam."

"Kiss me again and we'll call it even."

Andrew did so with a laugh. They got into the Wolseley, Andrew getting in to the back, leaving Foyle's customary seat beside Sam open. Foyle joined them soon.

"Good to see you looking better, son," he said, twisting around. His arm lay across the back of the seat, hand near Sam's shoulder, and he looked comfortable and pleased.

"Thanks, Dad." Andrew grinned at him, "Glad to be feeling better. I've got some news to share with you both over dinner."

"Where shall we go?" asked Sam eagerly.

"The Royal Hotel used to do a good fish pie…" Andrew began.

Foyle nodded, adding with a twinkle, "You're buying?"

"Absolutely."

They arrived at the hotel shortly, and were quite the glamourous little group, with both Foyle's looking smartly turned out and Sam blossoming under Andrew's changed demeanor. They sat in a corner table by the large, blackout curtained windows, and if it had been daylight, they would have had a splendid view of the seafront.

"So, Andrew, your news?" Sam asked eagerly once they sat down.

"Well, Turner was very kind and said some encouraging things. He told me I am being promoted to Flight Lieutenant and I'm being posted to Debden to train the new recruits. No more ops."

Foyle twitched his lips into a smile, "Well, that's wonderful, Andrew. Congratulations."

Sam was less quick to smile, "Well done, Andrew. Flight Lieutenant sounds very grand." She paused, fiddling with the cutlery, "Debden, you say…that's north of London isn't it?"

"Yes, a big base there." Andrew saw her look, "Not so far, really."

"I'm glad Turner was understanding, Andrew," Foyle said, eyes flicking towards Sam seeing her disappointment.

"He's a good man. I'm lucky to have served under him. Very fair."

The waiter came up just then to ask what they would like to drink, and it seemed to Andrew that Sam shook off any sadness that she felt with the knowledge he would be posted hours away. Her face looked more determined; she was going to enjoy the evening. He nudged her knee under the table with his own and gave her a smile

They spent the dinner talking about anything but the war. With Andrew back in top form it was a lively affair, and the other guests looked over in amusement, glad to see fun could still be had. About 9 o'clock they had finished, and Foyle sat up straight, putting his serviette aside.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening," he smiled round at them both, "but I think I will call it a night and let you two carry on without me."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yes, of course. Andrew doesn't need to be back until eleven, and if my ears don't deceive me, it sounds like a band is warming up next door."

"You'll come dancing, Sam?" Andrew asked with a hopeful smile.

"Rather!"

Foyle stood, "Enjoy yourselves. I'll be there to wave you off tomorrow. 10 o'clock is it?"

"Yes." Andrew stood as well, shaking hands with his father. "Thanks, Dad."

"Be good, have fun." Turning to Sam he said with a twitch of his lips, "Do be sure to get him back on time."

"Yes, sir." She grinned at him.

He gave them his upside down smile that was full of warmth and departed, weaving his way carefully through the tables of the dining room.

Andrew took Sam's hand now that they were alone, cupping it in his warm ones.

Sam found his eyes and said softly,"I'll miss you, Andrew."

"I'll miss you too. But let's not talk about that just now. I want to enjoy my last evening in Hastings dancing with the prettiest girl on the south coast."

She rolled her eyes at him. "All right, but no stepping on my toes," she said playfully.

"When have I ever?" he retorted, helping her out of her chair and tucking her hand in the crook of his arm.

They went in to the large room across the foyer of the hotel, where indeed a band was putting the finishing touches on a warmup number. There were quite a few people there already, milling about with drinks, waiting for the music to begin.

"I wish I was in that new dress," said Sam ruefully.

"I like you just as you are," Andrew said, giving her a squeeze.

The band began with an upbeat tune, and Andrew whirled her onto the dance floor with a flourish. He really was a very good dancer, and Sam was content to let him lead her in both familiar and new steps.

"Where did you learn all these dances?" she asked after the fifth song, looking flushed and breathless.

"Picked it up somewhere, I don't know."

She eyed him shrewdly, but said no more, enjoying being close to him in his arms.

"This reminds me of last night…I really did have a nice time."

He pressed his cheek against hers, whispering so only she could hear, "You are wonderful. I don't mean just dancing. I'm sorry for a lot of things, Sam, but I'll never be sorry for meeting you."

She smiled and squeezed his hand.

The song ended and they clapped for the band.

"It's getting late, Andrew, and we have to drive back."

"One more?… No, better not, you're right, we should go."

They pushed through the now quite large crowd, and paid the bill. Andrew took Sam's hand once they were outside. "I don't want this night to end," he said wistfully.

They drove the same route as they had that afternoon, quieter now, knowing it would be a while before they had moments like this again. Sam stopped just before the gate as she had done before, turning off the motor. Andrew traced lines on the back of her hand absentmindedly.

"What time is it?"

He checked his wristwatch. "10.50," he said with a sigh.

Sliding over the leather seat, Sam threw her arms around his neck, bursting into silent tears. Stroking her hair, Andrew made soothing noises. He found her lips and kissed her. Tears ran down her cheeks, but he brushed them away with his thumb. He kissed her as if the world was ending.

Breathless and damp eyed, Sam finally pulled away. "Now what time is it?"

With a snort, Andrew checked, "10.56"

"You'd better go."

"Yes, I better had."

"Keep me close, Andrew, won't you? Don't forget me?" She pushed at his chest, placing a hand over his heart.

"Always. I shan't ever forget you, Sam, or these wonderfully turbulent past few days." He grinned at her, wiping away still more tears that leaked from beneath her lids.

He gave her a quick kiss and opened the door to step out.

"Until tomorrow." He leant down to look at her before closing the door. "This is _our_ goodbye, Sam. There are bound to be more like it, but plenty of jolly good hellos as well to come."

Sam nodded, sniffing mightily. "Now go, Andrew before you really are late."

He grinned again and managed to get a watery smile in return.

In the morning, Sam drove herself and Foyle out to the base to see Andrew off. Sam parked and let Foyle go first to find Andrew.

He was getting his gear together and making last minute checks in a draughty hanger on the edge of the strip.

"Morning, Dad," Andrew said brightly.

They walked together towards the line of Spitfires.

"You'll write then?" Foyle asked, hands in his pockets.

"Of course. Every week." Andrew gave him a sidelong smile.

"I wonder." Foyle chewed his lip, "You've got cash?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thanks, Dad."

"Good. And you're all right? How do you feel?"

"Well, I don't think there will be anything ever like it again in my life. It's hard to say really, but I'll be all right, Dad, don't worry."

Foyle was chewing furiously on his inner cheek, and Andrew saw his eyes were a bit misty. Clearing his throat, Foyle motioned with his head, "Seems there's a queue. I'll say goodbye, and good luck."

"You too, Dad." Andrew pulled him into a tight embrace.

Foyle walked away back to the car. Thinking he was lucky to have such good people in his life who cared about him, Andrew watched his father for a moment before turning to see Sam waiting for him beside his plane.

He walked over, squinting in the morning sun. Sam was putting a brave face on, eyes bright but free of tears.

Andrew smiled at her. "We've said goodbye, so this is just 'until next time,' really, isn't it?"

She gave a small laugh, "I'll be thinking of you."

He took her hand, "We'll write, Sam, and it isn't really so far. We can have weekends together and I'll hunt out some tea shops where we can get a decent bit of cake and…"

She squeezed his hand and raised an eyebrow at him before smiling.

"Well, anyway, look after Dad for me, will you?"

"We look after each other," Sam said firmly.

"Good."

She inched towards him, whispering up, "Keep me close…?"

"Always." He kissed her gently.

Andrew smiled and turned to climb into the cockpit of his Spit. Once he was in, he turned and flashed her his old, familiar cheeky grin.

Sam let a tear escape down her cheek, but smiled back. She walked away back to join Foyle by the car, wiping the moisture from her cheeks as subtly as she could. She noticed Foyle smiling softly and he asked, "You all right?"

"Yes, sir."

He caught her eye and the soft smile became warm, reaching his eyes so that they twinkled.

"Well I'll miss him, certainly. Will you?"

"Yes, I will, sir. Again, I'm…well, I'm sorry about getting involved and not telling you. I didn't mean to…well, I did mean to get involved…what I mean to say is…"

Foyle chuckled, "W-well..." He turned towards her with an amused look, "the Foyles, you know…always have been hard to resist."

She laughed and he looked pleased to see her smile return.

Unconsciously running an eye over his features, she replied with amusement, "Absolutely, sir."

They turned back to watch Andrew fly off. Sam glanced at Foyle noticing he was worrying his inner cheek again. He'd done that the whole drive here, and she knew he was just as sad to see Andrew go. It rather felt like the end of something.

The Spit roared its way down the tarmac and they watched it take flight. Once the aircraft gained enough altitude, Andrew waggled the wings in farewell, climbing higher and higher, out of sight.


End file.
